“These born to judge as well as those to write
Let such teach others who themselves excel.”
—Alexander Pope, An Essay on Criticism (1709)“You know, what has to happen in a person’s life for them to become a critic anyway?”
—Birdman, dir. Alejandro González Iñárritu (2014)
So rarely is love universal. Even with sayings such as, “The customer is always right in matters of taste,” we cannot agree; as is the nature of personal taste. But who has the authority? Lord Byron famously poked fun at John Keats in his poem Don Juan, writing, “John Keats, who was kill’d off by one critique”. This poses the ultimate question: who gets to be a critic?
A part of the reason I hated English class (even as a voracious reader / writer) is the notion of the expert opinion. It seemed incredibly egotistical to me for an art form to be diluted into the arbitrary camps of “good” and “bad”. Perhaps this can be put down to my bucking against authority? Nevertheless, I have long since found it perplexing that in opposition to our belief in equality, a select few are seen to carry greater knowledge than their neighbours. People in such positions are fiercely protective over them, becoming hostile in the face of correction. This can be seen in the classroom; where the student knows something their teacher (superior) doesn’t.
This combined is what led me to wrestle with my relationship to criticism of my writing. Once I began submitting professionally, feedback (positive and negative) slowly made its way through the sieve of my subconscious. The word “criticism” comes from the Greek word kritikos meaning “able to make judgements”. As children, to be open to everything, free of judgement, is heavily instilled. To judge is seen as a negative to be avoided at all costs, or reserved for ‘appropriate’ situations. I often wonder if this association is what has made me so irritated by criticism. It is irreconcilable to me that picking a piece of art (something unique and a form of free expression) apart is considered valid.
I recently listened to an episode of Kamran Javadizadeh’s podcast Close Readings, and he was speaking to the poet Elisa Gonzalez about the late Louise Glück. Amidst their conversation, Gonzalez spoke of the critical comments Glück often left on her poetry. One of the comments she remembered was “hopelessly conventional”, actually causing Gonzalez to cry. Yet, as she tells this story, she almost remembers it fondly; a baffling sentiment to me. Upon hearing this, I couldn’t understand why you would give anyone—Nobel Prize winner or not—the power to intellectually bear down on you. My reaction only goes to further prove why I would make a ‘bad’ student; I cannot be taught. This is especially true when the poem discussed was Glück’s A Village Life: a trite and uninspired piece with a sore lack of imagery.
My blind confidence in my abilities as a writer is what has gotten me to where I am today. I do not diminish my own intelligence by giving credence to the idea that certain opinions hold more weight than others. One might view my willingness to go toe to toe with poets of greater status than my own as the result of an unchecked ego, but I don’t see it that way at all. My self-belief ensures I accept all opportunities that come my way; whether I think I am suitably qualified is of no importance. I do not believe I am the best at what I do, but I am sure I could be. This disposition is what keeps me from seeking out artistic mentorship and rigorous creative courses. To have to answer to a person I am supposed to become subservient to is my nightmare.
It was only when I began my Poetry Postmortem series did I attempt to repair my relationship with Literary criticism. And as I move into more in depth articles, I have begun to toy with the ethics of criticism. The illusion of objectivity is what keeps me from fully immersing myself in the sea of critique. To post your opinion with confidence is to hold yourself in high regard. Who gets to share their thoughts with authority and why? If you are interested in film, Roger Ebert will be a familiar name. Like a cult leader, his words hold weight. The less discerning person will eat up everything he writes, no questions asked. However, if you are like me, you will take it with a grain of salt. This leaves me with one question: how am I to move into the world of criticism if I cannot give those who practice it my full respect?
Many poetry critics discuss the art I have dedicated the last ten years of my life to in a lifeless, cynical way. They are almost robotic in how they separate “bad” poetry from “good”. Poetry as a quantifiable quality is a notion many of my peers feed into; this often causes me to get into heated debates over what I see as elitism. I have asked these people what makes them believe they are so great to be qualified to critique, and they have been taken aback by my provocation. It would seem that I am supposed to handle their critical breakdowns as I would a sheet of glass. I will knock on their door and have tea, but I can’t stay past teatime because I have more people to drink with.
Though I would like my ‘professional’ opinion to be respected, I much prefer to see my contributions as conversation. I am not the flower that blooms, but the water that coaxes it. If the critic were to be a conversationalist rather than an arbiter, I would be much more forgiving. While not all critics are alike, I find the occasional flamboyant behaviour to be woefully intolerable. And these sensitivities will of course deepen when the glaring eye of judgement casts its shadow on oneself or something close to it.
In Don Paterson’s The Poem: Lyric, Sign, Metre, he denigrates activities he believes “infantilise a perfectly grown up subject.” His example, including items such as “crayons” and “card-tricks”, shows how poets of status can be superseded by the ego that has been validated for many years. Paterson cannot see a reason for using crayons to inspire ideas in adult writers. Across the entire book, Paterson imparts his expertise to those reading the book, whether they be writers themselves or merely passersby. Those in positions of power are offered leniency when expressing sentiments that are ill-thought or pernickety. Though opinions are likely to run rife post-publication, most are unlikely to confront the big cheese.
The problem with Literary criticism is the very thing it seeks to understand. What exactly is art? I have always held the belief that writing isn’t a science, it’s not mathematics, and it’s certainly not heart surgery. Despite my Poetry Postmortem series, I am frequently prickly at those who make sweeping declarations. Someone with whom I was once familiar admitted publicly that they judge a poet by the title of their collection. To tell you the truth—we fell out over it. Another time, a fairly well-respected editor shut me down when I advocated for abstract poetry, going so far as to tell me it was “bad advice”. We grow up believing that art is the purest form of self-expression; painters, musicians, writers, etc. There are no right answers when pouring your spleen across a blank page. However, the existence of criticism would indicate that it is not as free as we once thought, as per the incessant need to sort poems into camps of “good” and “bad”. Yes, there are techniques used when composing a poem. The form a poem is written in does say an awful lot about the deeper intricacies. But does that make it a science?
Are the critics not just people who can shout louder than the rest? Why must we distill expression of what it is to be human into something we can taste? Perhaps it is our nature as human beings to need to answer the unanswerable. I have no problem with the exploration of meaning, but the call to ascribe quality to something so personal as poetry feels reductive. As I make my move on the chess board, I consider the rights of the critic. Who am I to be a critic? Who am I to impose my ideas on the blood of another? Even as I analysed the dead poet Christina Rossetti’s poem, Goblin Market, I recognise the nausea of perceived authority weighing down on me. Her spirited finger points at me as if to say: who are you to write such things? These are the crosses I bear, with no anaesthetic, the royal scalpel kissing the iodine.
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Thank you all for reading, and do leave your comments and thoughts below!
So much interesting material to dive into here. I'll need to reread this on different days. I have thought about this with something like foreboding. That is: what if someone takes me seriously? I am fascinated by Megalopolis and its ambitions, for instance. I believe it was worth it. You heighten my self-awareness here but I hate, HATE claims of authority and yet I make them. We all do.
We can't be too hard on ourselves for that reason. If it's honest it's vulnerable and brave. The conversation. Yes. Conversation ends with claims to authority.
You've also opened a door wide open to that vulnerability that defines my favourite criticism by inviting us to explore your Rossetti "Making Of"!
Courtenay, you also happen to be among MY FAVOURITE Substack poet.
Isn't my "favourite" different than "best"?
To slide across the dance floor to another genre: Duke Ellington once said that there are only two types of music: “good and bad.” I am shyless about making such judgements. It is only when I attach feckless authority and superiority to my judgement that I become appropriately suspicious of my judgment and my motives.